I hate making the trip all the way out there. It’s so very far away, or at least, that’s how it seems. Besides, there are so many memories that require attention and yet, what’s the use? Why dredge up the whole sorry mess?
Still, we promised.
So, we drove. It was hot. Even the air conditioning in our new van couldn’t penetrate the heat. I hate being hot. I long for the coolness that I know the river is capable of providing, but we pass the access point without slowing down. No time. We are already late.
When we finally turn onto the long gravel road the dust billows around us and I remember once again why I hated summer in the country.
We speed up to outrun the clouds of dust that threaten to choke us. The winding path snakes on before us farther than the eye can see.
I long to roll down my window and breath deeply of the fresh air…air untainted by smog or pollution. Air free of the stench of human occupancy. I remember once again why I loved summer in the country.
Familiar landmarks are everywhere. The barn that fell during last winters’ snowfall. The tree snapped in half during last autumns ‘upper wind disturbance’. That’s what the officials called it. We who survived it called it a tornado. The power pole that gave under the weight of the ice and left us cold and stranded for a week.
All familiar. All dragging memories best forgotten to the surface where they could scrape and tear at me.
We turned the corner. The cemetery was still there. Still silent. Every one of the 57 tombstones proudly displayed a bouquet of plastic flowers, their petals drooping and beginning to fade. All but one. Its flowers were as new and vivid as the freshly-turned dirt that covered the grave.
The schoolhouse remained, standing sentinel over the dead.
A quiet laugh echoed through the trees. I smiled. Perhaps the children remained.
The steep driveway had narrowed, taken over by time and nature and lack of use. A crooked fissure divided the ground, evidence of the constant rains that marked May in Missouri. We navigated from memory.
The manor was deserted. It looked so sad that I had to look away. Once it had been so filled with love and life. Now it was simply abandoned.
My eyes fell upon the old corn crib. We had worked so very hard to make it a home for the animals. Hours of back-breaking labor in the heat of the summer and the cold of winter. Not that it was ever used for the animals. It was much more suited to a children’s clubhouse.
I stepped from the van and heard again the laughter of children from generations past. Familiar sounds in the quiet of our valley. Memories bombarded me and tears pricked my eyes.
My husband slipped his hand into mine and leaned near to whisper in my ear,
“Remember when…”
